Harry Potter and the War at Hand
by fourcorners
Summary: With so much grief, Harry Potter is in need of a change, and with the war coming closer and closer, that's exactly what he's getting. His life, power, and mentality are all changing, and as the war comes to his door, he plans to stand strong against it...


Chapter One: Revelations

As the clouds descended over the houses on Privet Drive, a distant rumbling could be heard quite clearly. Rain was building up overhead and the dark puffs in the sky tried in vain to hold the building water. As the sky changed from a cool blue to a cold black, the rain seeped out of the clouds and sprinkled softly over the homes. Eyes peered nervously out of the windows of each abnormally alike house, each waiting for the torrent of precipitation to tear over the roofs of their homes. The few people who had been outside during the day flocked hurriedly underneath shelter, wary of Mother Nature's temper. The sky boomed it's chuckle at the unlucky souls on the ground, flaunting it's power over the residents of Surrey.

Thunder. Lightning. Little children ran to their mother's side, attempting to escape from the sounds but to no avail. The men of the suberb ruffled their newspapers indignantly at the weather, concealing their fear as if it was a dirty rag.

The Dursley family was no different. Vernon Dursley sat on the couch in his living room, watching the evening news and trying to pretend nothing was wrong. Petunia, his wife, sat in the chair to his right, glancing nervously at the window across the room. Their son, Dudley Dursley seemed to be the only person in the neighborhood unaware of the storm as he was wrapped up in his music, which was blaring mightily from his room upstairs.

Across the hall in a much smaller and quieter room sat a boy who bore no resemblance of the other three inhabitants of Number Four Privet Drive. He was skinny and more than a bit lanky, not to mention pale. His raven hair stood out at all angles, defying both logic and physics as well as the boy's own wishes. His glasses protected a pair of emerald green eyes--eyes that pierced through the dark of the room like a finger through a wet piece of paper. The only oddity about this seemingly ordinary boy was the jagged scar that was placed on his forehead.

The scar that he grew up believing had come from a car crash. The scar that, much to his chagrin, was the defining symbol of his every being. Their was a time, when he was just a baby, that he lived without the accursed scar, but the boy who sat brooding deep in the heart of Surrey could not remember that time.

Harry Potter fixed the roaring clouds with a stare that could have frozen anything in it's path. For a moment, the blame that he had placed upon his shoulders at the beginning of the summer was being focused elsewhere. The grief that had twirled over and over in his stomach evaporated in those same seconds. In place of the blame and grief was an anger so profound, that had it been at living being, the boy would need to be restrained by many a strong arm.

He closed his eyes for a moment, a willed himself to calm down once again. The bubbling hatred that had been so close to falling over the edge slid back down into his stomach, and he turned back to his miserable thoughts.

For three days Harry had been sitting, mostly staring out of this same window. He ate sparingly, and spoke even less, and did a fine job of keeping himself concealed from the entire world. He wallowed in his guilt and pain, and there was nothing more. His friends wrote him everyday, telling him of the world that he had cut himself off from and though he read each later with gusto, he couldn't find the strength to write much of a reply. Ron, Hermione, Remus, and the many others that cared for him tried to pull him up from his well of depression, but nothing made much of a difference.

He hadn't picked up after himself, much less picked up a book or a quill, and he was dirty as well as disheveled. He couldn't bring himself to care much about anything, and even less about himself. He was no longer at the breaking point; the breaking point had come and gone as Sirius fell through the veil. Days were spent in quiet contemplation and nights were spent even quieter, and the sleep he'd come to do without was beginning to take a toll. His once bright eyes were now gaunt and continuously glazed over. The bags under those eyes were packed and ready for the luggage cart, drooping heavily and looking quite dark. He was afraid of sleep, truthfully. It brought back the memories of his worst moments--Cedric on the ground; Sirius falling; his parents' screams--and tortured him worse than any Cruciatus Curse could. To Harry, there was still a light at the end of the tunnel, but the only light that he recognized was always a sickly green.

Albus Dumbledore steepled his fingers and brought them slowly up to his lips. He sat in this position very often, looking back over his many years at his great successes and happy memories. But lately, his reflections took a different route. Each good thought he could bring to light also brought to light one that off set it.

In his office at Hogwarts, he fell back softly against his comfortable armchair and heard the squeak as the chair leaned back. Many of the possessions that had once adorned the walls of his office were now adorning the floor, some broken and all in dissaray. He was never one to leave a mess and he knew that he could fix each instrument with a flick of a wand, but he couldn't seem to find the energy. It wasn't that he was tired, although he was a very old man and far past his prime, but he just couldn't wrench his thoughts away from the same raven haired boy that sat moodily watching the rain at Privet Drive.

Yes, Albus had done many great things. He had apprenticed under Nicholas Flamel and the knowledge he had recieved could fill a small library. He'd found the twelve uses of dragon's blood through many years of boring and painstaking work; he'd fought of Grindewald and put a stop to the dark wizardry of the time. But for each pillar of 'great' there was a taller pillar of 'terrible'. He had manipulated and lied, forsaking the trust that so many had put in him. He had lost the love of his life for 'the greater good'. He had watched so many of his friends pass away and never jumped in to help them.

But the memory that stood in the forefront of his mind was that of James and Lily Potter. Pictures of them holding their son; pictures of them laughing and smiling along side Sirius and Remus, and even that foul Peter Pettigrew. Pictures, of the night that the Potter's entire world came tumbling down.

A small bundle held tight in Hagrid's arms as the half-giant handed it to him. Dumbledore laying the Boy-Who-Lived on the front steps of Vernon and Petunia Dursley's home. They were Harry's only family, and though he knew how Petunia felt about magic, he thought that she could overcome her childish abhorrence and at least show the boy some sort of love, even if it wasn't motherly.

That day, the day that so many were over-joyed, was the day Albus Dumbledore made the biggest mistake of his life. And he resolved to make it right.

Ginny Weasley lay on her bed, thoughtfully chewing on the end of a pink quill. She gazed at the piece of parchment before her, not seeing the words she had scribbled on the page. Her boyfriend, Dean Thomas, had written her another message, guilded together with musings about West Ham Football Club and inquirings about herself and her family, but her mind was far away from The Burrow.

She was thinking about the boy in the rainstorm in Surrey. Ron had written Harry all three days trying to wiggle around having to mention the Department of Mysteries or Sirius' untimely death, and Ron was becoming increasingly alarmed as Harry refused to write back. Her mother and father were also very worried--they both looked at Harry as the son they never had--and spent the nights talking quietly about him. Fred and George were trying to prepare something to cheer him up and had come to Ginny asking for some help (which she readily gave them) but though they were working hard, Ginny thought that nothing short of a miracle could bring Harry out of the puddle of guilt he was mucking about in. Harry had always been the quiet, brooding type; Harry was the kind of man that packed down each thought and only vented through anger, which brought about more guilt and quietness. Hermione and Ron had spent the last two years dealing with that 'side' of Harry, and in the past year she had come into contact with 'vexed' Harry more than once herself.

She knew he had it rough; when people weren't accusing him of being the Heir of Slytherin or a liar or nutcase they were running about like he was the King of Wizardry. With people questioning in one corner and accusing in another, not to mention Colin Creevey following on his heels and Rita Skeeter writing falsities about him in the Daily Prophet, it was enough to make any person lose their sanity. He also had the darkest wizard of all time tracking him, along with his minions who were only slightly less powerful than him. It was almost amazing that the boy hadn't already thrown himself off the Astronomy Tower.

But, beyond being angry, paranoid, and sorrowful, he was so many good things. He stood up for what he believed in. He cared for others more than himself. He was courageous and driven beyond his years, and dealt with responsibilties that a good portion of grown wizards had never even concerned themselves with. He had made friends with Giants and Centuars, Ghosts and House Elves; he had fought against so many enemies and come away from it with many more friends. He was powerful and a born leader and commanded the respect of anyone with any bit of sense. And of course, Ginny thought while blushing, he was a stud.

She also knew that Harry would never open up to Ron and Hermione. Ron was too dense to express your feelings to, and Hermione always over-analyzed the situation. He could look to someone older--perhaps Lupin--but Remus was going through his own tough time and though it would probably make it easier for the both of them, neither would ever broach the subject to the other. Dumbledore was out: Ginny knew that Harry was angry at Dumbledore and the Headmaster would probably do some fool thing like resort to 'an ancient magic'. Her mom would pity him, and her dad would listen, but neither would understand or be able to help; Tonks would be an interesting choice, but Harry didn't know her well enough to open up to yet.

There was also Neville, who had made some sort of excursion into the trio and could probably help him come to terms a bit, but he wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed though he had made considerable progress. Luna... well... was off running after Crumple-Horned Snorcacks and would probably just confuse Harry.

The truth of the matter, Ginny reasoned, was that she had to be the one to help Harry out of his hole. But first of course, she had to write her boyfriend.

Staring up at the ceiling over his bed, Harry reflected on the night before. The storm had been one of the worst he could remember. He had heard on news that morning that the damage to houses in the area had been immense. One house had gone up in flames when a bolt of lightning had hit it and another house had all but been torn apart by the winds. A tree had fallen in the neighbor's yard, and Mrs. Figg's door had been ripped from it's hinges. Petunia had volunteered Harry to fix it and he loathed her all the more for it. A year ago he had found out that Mrs. Figg had not been an ordinary muggle, but a squib instead. She had been watching him for Dumbledore over the years and though Harry knew he should not be angry at being taken care of, part of him still wanted to lash out at every member of the Order for following him around with watching eyes like he was the neighborhood thief. By far, Harry had not been enjoying himself an iota while he was at Privet Drive, but he definately wasn't ready to head back into the wizarding world. The solitude and the ability to mope around in self-pity was hardly invigorating, but it was better than having to be around all of the people who really did pity him.

So, it was after a hard fought inner battle, that he finally decided to walk down to Mrs. Figg's doorstep. Rather than knock on the door (which was non-existent of course) he called out shakily from the doorway.

"...Er...Mrs. Figg? Are you...ah...home?"

A woman who looked somewhat dotty under her evening gown and tartan slippers came from the kitchen with a following of cats. Her long grizzled gray hair fell out in sprigs from underneath a black hairnet. She smiled geniunely at Harry upon seeing him, and he forced a tight smile back.

"Ah, Harry... come in, come in", said the elderly woman calling over her shoulder as she walked back through the kitchen doors. Harry stood silently for a moment, and reluctantly stalked off after the batty old woman.

He pushed open the kitchen door and opened his mouth to tell her that he just wanted to fix the door and get home, when one of the cats caught his eyes. It looked very different from Mrs. Figg's other cats, almost as if the cat had glasses. Suddenly, it dawned on him that it wasn't a cat it was--

"Professor", Harry nodded to the tabby cat that was now sitting up on its hind legs and looking at him.

"Potter", was the reply from the severe-looking woman who was now standing in the place of the cat. "Have a seat, Harry." she said, gesturing to the kitchen table. "Arabella, could you get us both a cup of tea?".

Various thoughts filled his head as he sat down and the grimace on his face easily told that they were terrible thoughts. He feared the worst as he looked down at his fingers, but hoped with all of his heart that his fears weren't true.

Professor McGonagall came over to the chair across from him, and set herself down as well. She waited to speak until Mrs. Figg had brought the tea, and then she took a couple of contemplating sips before she opened her mouth to begin.

"How are you, Harry?" she started, surprising Harry. The surprise was quickly gone when he realized she was probably just stalling so she could get her courage up. He decided to answer her in the between time, hoping he could get his courage up as well.

"I'm doing okay Professor, how about you?"

She nodded slightly and said, "I'm still ticking, Harry. Those stunners took a lot out of me, but there's a whole lot of life left in these old bones."

A series of things hit Harry all at once. First, the fact that she didn't seem to be sad about anything. Secondly, it hit him that he had all but forgotten about Professor McGonagall's run-in with the Ministry during his Astronomy exam a few weeks ago. Finally, he noticed that she was talking like a normal person instead of the stern Transfiguration teacher that he knew.

He opened his mouth to voice one of those many thoughts, but she raised one hand up to stop him.

"While I was in the hospital recovering, I thought about how crabby I sound and I've decided to change that." She gave him a grandmotherly smile, and he couldn't help but smile back.

"I like the change, Professor," he said between sips of tea.

Her eyes were twinkling somewhat like Dumbledore's when she continued.

"Harry, Albus sent me here to tell you something that he thought you would like to know."

The name Albus sent a shiver of anger down his spine, but if she noticed, she didn't let him know it. Instead, she kept talking.

"You're not staying at the Dursley's any longer."

Harry's eyebrows immediately shot up into his fringe. He coughed on the tea he had just tasted, and spluttered, "..Wh..cag..What?"

The formerly strict teacher he remembered was now peering over the table at him, looking very much like the Cheshire Cat. "For years I've been begging that man to take you away from those...those...people, and finally he has come to his senses. He wants to make up for all of the wrongs he has done to you, but he couldn't be here in person, so he sent me to tell you. You'll be leaving tommorow, by the way."

He was still staring in awe at witch before him, almost drooling out of the side of his mouth. He couldn't even begin to put his thoughts together and they rushed about his head in a blur. He wasn't going to be at the Dursleys! He didn't have to sit in silence for the entire summer. He was going...

"Where am I... er ...going, Professor?" he stammered. He really didn't want to go to Grimmauld Place, and he wasn't exactly sure he wanted to be around the Weasleys at the moment. He loved each of them, but he knew that Mrs. Weasley would be asking questions that he wasn't ready to answer yet, and he needed a bit of time alone. "I'm sorry, and I don't mean to be rude, but I don't want to go to Grimmauld Place... or the Burrow really."

At this, her smile faltered a little, but it stayed on firmly on her face. "No, no, son, you'll be going to stay with me."

When Harry's face went blank, she very nearly snorted out loud. "At Hogwarts, Harry."

Then, Harry's face went the very opposite of blank. He almost jumped out of his seat with glee, but his curiousity kept him in his chair. "I can... go back to Hogwarts? But Professor, there aren't any students there! I can't possibly..."

Her smile came back ten fold as she said, "You wont be alone. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger will be there, as well as Miss Weasley. I believe Mr. Longbottom and Miss Lovegood will be coming sometime before school starts, but I'm not quite sure when they will be there."

His joy was nearly palpable. Not only was he going back to Hogwarts, he would be with his best friends! He did a sort of jig as he jumped up from the table, and amidst snickers of laughter from both Professor McGonagall and Arabella Figg, he grabbed the Professor in a gentle hug. "Thank you SO much, Professor. You don't know how much this means to me!"

Minerva McGonagall stood in shock as the Boy-Who-Lived squeezed her about the waist. In twenty years of teaching she had never been embraced by a student, but she had to admit, it felt very good. This boy had been through so much in his life, and knowing that she was easing some of the pain he felt was almost as good as easing her own pain. Her heart bubbled with happiness as Harry's arms fell softly back to his side, and he moved over to hug the other woman in the room.

"Mrs. Figg, I'm so sorry I used to hate coming to your house. Thank you so much for watching over me," Harry said as he put his arms around the batty old woman. Arabella Figg was very nearly tearing up as she recieved the first hug she'd had since her husband died twenty years ago. She sighed with contentment, relishing in the arms around her. She sniffled and said, "Oh, that's...that's quite alright, Harry."

Harry couldn't help the beaming smile on his face. He was going home! The Dursley's house wasn't his home. He'd lived there until his was eleven, but every year since then when he entered the house, it was the beginning of a miserable summer vacation. He had people that cared for him at Hogwarts. He could live like a normal person (a normal wizard) and no one would even think twice about it. He would see Ron's bright red hair, spread over the sides of his forehead as the skinny Weasley grinned back at him. He would hug Hermione as she came running to him, bushy brown hair blocking the rest of the world from view. He would hug Ginny; Ron's scabby-kneed, pig-tailed, spunky little sister.

Then everything would be fine.

It hit him like a truck when he remembered Sirius. The confused and surprised look on his face as he fell through the veil; Bellatrix Lestrange's scream of triumph as she killed her cousin. As quick as Harry's happiness had come, it faded into the guilt and depression that had plagued him all summer. His face contorting into a frown, he walked over to the table and sat down wearily.

Professor McGonagall, who had been watching him with a bemused expression, realized the change in Harry's heart almost as quickly as Harry had. She knew it would come, but it still wasn't easy seeing the hurt and sorrow in the young man's eyes. Lily's eyes; the eyes that were so full of joy and life were now shadowed by the many deaths in Harry's life.

"Harry," called the soft voice of the Professor, as she reached out to his arm. He started to yank away, but thought better of it and just sat silent. "Harry, you can't do this to yourself. It's going to get you in the long run..."

The anger that had come with the name of Dumbledore was now back. It ran up his spine, and instantly he shot up from the table. Speaking in low but perfectly clear tones, he spat,"What would you know about it."

"Sit down boy!" yelled another voice from behind him, making him jump almost to the ceiling. "Don't you dare talk to that woman that way. Don't you ever talk to your elders that way. I'll be damned if I'ma let you talk that way around me!"

Mad-Eye Moody stood in the doorway to the kitchen, wand focused on Harry, eyes piercing him with daggers. Harry gasped, and took the ex-Auror's advice, sitting almost as quickly as he had stood.

The broken and battered old man only lowered his voice enough to guard it from the neighboring muggles. "You have absolutely no right to talk to her that way. Now you listen and you listen good. You are not the only person who has lost some one. I've been an auror for more years than you can count boy, and you think I haven't lost some one? I was your age once boy. I had things to fight for, and people after me; I had friends and relatives that were dying around me. I've lost as much as you--HELL--I've lost more than you, Potter! My parents are long gone; my best friends died to Voldemort; I loved people too! You have absolutely no right to sit and sulk about it."

"Your parents, Cedric, and Sirius, were all good people. They didn't deserve to die. But don't you think for one damn moment that they want you to act the way your acting. They're looking down on you right now, and I know that if my son, my friend, my godson was sitting there talking back to a woman that is trying to help him out, I'd be disgraced. Harry Potter, you've got to get over your damn self. You may think you've got problems, but damnit, we've all got them. Yes, Sirius just died. But do you think a Marauder would want you to sit around and pout because he's gone? The man's gone to a better place! He's happy, Harry!"

He stopped for a moment, and caught his breath. When he spoke again, it was almost soft. "Harry, there are people here who still care for you. They haven't all left you. Your friends, Molly and Arthur, Minerva, Tonks, Remus--hell I care for you Harry. Don't sit around moping for the ones you've lost, cherish the ones that are still here. Don't grow up so damn fast. I know you've got that lunatic after you, and I know Dumbledore is prancing you around like his play toy, but you're more than the bloody Boy-Who-Lived. Ron and Hermione don't think about you like that; the Weasley girl doesn't think about you liked that. But what do you do? You keep blowing up in their faces when they're trying to help you. You wonder why people keep tip-toeing around you like your a bomb ready to explode? That's because you are!"

"Stop acting like a fool and be the boy you used to be. Don't waste another minute sulking or Merlin help me, I'll hex you into next week. Voldemort ain't coming today, so live a little!"

"Now, apologize to Minerva and go get your stuff ready for tomorrow."

Mouth gaping and heart clenching, Harry was in awe. He slumped back into his seat as his brain started to work again, and he very nearly cried. Memories of himself yelling at his best friends flooded through his mind; memories of himself a few moments ago yelling at his Head of House followed them. Years of anger that had been bubbling under the surface suddenly disappeared. In it's place, though, was the guilt that had taken hold of his life. The thoughts he'd been having for years--the world would be a better place if I wasn't in it--were at the forefront of his mind.

Arabella Figg could see it. As if looking in the mirror, she could see the guilt-ridden expression in his face; the years of believing everything was his fault were shown plainly in his eyes. For years she had blamed herself for her husbands' death, and it took her a good four to stop drinking long enough to realize that there was nothing she could do. In that moment, sitting in her kitchen, looking at the boy who lived just down the street, she saw herself and it scared her. If someone didn't stop him, he could waste his life away, pushing people far from him.

And, that's exactly where Harry Potter's thoughts were. Push everyone away, and it may hurt them at first, but they'll be better off in the long run. Ron and Hermione could run off together and make another seven Weasley kids. Fred and George would be millionaires and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley wouldn't have to worry about losing their family. Percy would come crawling back, begging to have another Weasley sweater. Ginny wouldn't have a constant reminder of the worst year of her life standing right in front of her.

As he was making up his mind not to have anything to do with the Weasley family, an arm grabbed him softly and shook him. Torn from his trance, he looked up into the eyes of Arabella Figg.

"No Harry," she said softly, "Don't push them away."

His eyes widened as he saw the pain and hurt that had been in her life all these years. It was as if he could almost read her mind--he knew she had been in love and lost him; he knew that she blamed herself.

She released his arm, and walked over to the kitchen counter, filling up another cup of tea. She added a bit of sugar and cream and leaned against the wall, lost in her thoughts for a moment.

"Harry... in your life you have seen a lot of things," she said softly. "You've been through the pain of loss at a very young age. Merlin knows it's tough, but do you not realize what pushing the people you love away will do? You won't help them or yourself, Harry, you'll only be lost at sea. The pain of losing them will hurt until it grows larger than the pain you feel now. It'll keep growing larger and larger until it consumes you, and there is no way to escape it when you're all alone."

She sighed, and reorganized her thoughts, trying to get up the courage to say what she needed to say. After a few breaths, she continued.

"Ah... Harry, look at me. Really look at me. You might see me as just an old, feeble little woman...", she said, raising up her hand to stop him. "Don't worry, I'm not mad about it, because I really don't blame you. For almost twenty years I have been alone in this house save the few visits I get from the Order members and my cats. And do you know why Harry? Guilt."

"Twenty years ago, my husband died in an attack in London. Of course, the newspapers all said that it was a robbery gone bad, but it was really You-Know-Who. He tracked my husband down because he was married to a Squib. He was a muggle and he never knew a thing about our people until the night that they tortured him and his friends."

She paused for a moment to wipe a tear from her eye, and kept going.

"Harry, I used to be a middle-age woman with love and hope in my heart. I was never a good-looking woman, but I was happy, and that makes a woman more beautiful than any bit of glamour she can put on. But, boy, when I lost Sam... I lost a piece of myself. I pushed other people away and kept very few friends. All of the people I loved; I pushed all of the people that I cared for out of my life. It seemed like the right thing to do then, but Harry, look at me now. Do you really want to end up an old man with a house full of cats for company?"

"You've got dozens of people that love you, myself included, but you never focus on the good things. The Dursleys hate you, Harry, I know, but they're not your real family. You may not have red hair, but you don't need freckles and a scarlet mop for me to tell that Molly and Arthur love you. Your Ron's best friend for goodness sakes! Fred, George, Ginny; they all care about you more than you could ever know, and hell, even Bill and Charlie think of you as a little brother. Beyond that you've got Hermione, Remus, Tonks; are you going to throw away all of that just because you're afraid of losing one of them? Think about that, Harry. You're going to be losing them all if you distance yourself, and though they'll be alive, a part of them will be dead forever."

"Harry, go home, get your things, pack them up, be ready for tommorow morning. But, when you get done, do me a favor. Pick up a quill, get yourself some ink, and write Ron a letter. Write Hermione a letter after that. Keep writing until your hand hurts Harry. And, don't forget to apologize to Minerva."

Harry, mind swimming with everything that he had been told in the last ten minutes, simply nodded. He nodded again for reassurance, and told his Transfiguration teacher that he was deeply sorry and would see her tommorow. He stopped to fix the door, to find that it was as good as new. It had been five years since he'd found out about the world of wizardry and he was still stumped when a broken door was magically fixed.

With thoughts of all the good things magic had brought him, he began his trek back to Number Four. Before life as a wizard he was a lonely little boy in cupboard under the stairs, and now, years later, he was arguably the most famous of the wizarding community. He'd gone from a boy with no parents, a hateful aunt, uncle, and cousin, and no friends to the seventh Weasley brother.

He had no idea how much Alastor Moody and Arabella Figg's testimonies had just helped him, but in one brief span of time, he had gone from the Boy-Who-Lived to the Man-Who-Lived. Painful stories of death and loss, suprisingly, had just given Harry Potter a new outlook on life. Hours before he had been distraught with grief and wrapped up in his own misery, and now, as he reached the front steps of the home of Petunia and Vernon Dursley, his fears had been at least partly alleviated. He would never be able to live with the fact that there were terrorists after everyone he loved, but, suddenly he knew that the only way for it all to stop was not for him to distance himself. Quite to the contrary, the only way to stop the heartbreak that Voldemort and his Death Eaters brought was to continuing loving and, most of all, continuing fighting. Harry chuckled inwardly as he stepped on the stoop just outside of the Dursley's door, thinking about a two pieces of advice that, after all of these years, still made perfect sense.

Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, and Headmaster of Hogwarts, had once told him that there would come a time when he would have to choose between 'what is right, and what is easy'. There was nothing he could think of that was more truthful.

But the advice that at the moment hit him full blast like a truck hitting a small dog; the advice that meant the most to him was it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. For over two years his nightmares had ravaged his nights and influenced everything about him, and he now promised himself to no longer feel guilty about what happened in the past. Yes, it could have been his fault Sirius, Cedric, and his parents died. It could have been his fault that so many people had died and so many people would die in the future, but, the fact of the matter remained that it wasn't. It was Tom Marvollo Riddle's cruelty and insane ideals that caused those people to die, and the only thing that Harry would feel guilty about now was the fact that he hadn't been trying harder to stop him.

Putting his palm on the door of the house, he promised himself to the depths of his soul that he would find a way to stop the killing that Voldemort brought. He would study his mismatched socks off; he would learn curses, jinxes, and hexes until his eyes drooped. But, more than that, he wouldn't sit down and let Dumbledore walk all over him. He knew it wasn't right to be mad at the man any longer, and he swore to himself that he would, if nothing else, be civil, but if the prophecy said that Harry Potter had to be the one to stop the Dark Lord, by Merlin, he wasn't going to sit around on his bum. He didn't want to be one of the kids that needed to be protected, he wanted to be a warrior who gave protection.

As he stepped back inside the confines of Number Four, Privet Drive, for what he hoped would be the last time, he promised himself that when he reached Hogwarts again, he wasn't leaving until he was certain he was prepared.


End file.
